I miss the one who wrote me this poem scribbled on the back of A.S. Byatt’s Little Black Book of Stories that she gave me:
A Song for Myself
i.
a beautiful song
sweetly playing in my heart
has now played its last
ii.
the placid waters
conceal their grief in ripples
of purple silence
iii.
a stranger sits by
the bank of the blue river
they sigh together
iv.
a new melody
is soothing my downcast heart
the last tears depart
v.
you catch the morning
when it comes… the dawn’s embrace
always brings a song
And I miss the one who sang me this song:
(whistling)
Here’s a little song i wrote,
you might want to sing it note for note,
don’t worry, be happy
in every life we have some trouble,
when you worry you make it double
don’t worry, be happy
dont worry be happy now
dont worry be happy
dont worry be happy
dont worry be happy
dont worry be happy
aint got no place to lay your head,
somebody came and took your bed,
don’t worry, be happy…
And I have to get out of where I lurk right now.
Big Brother isn’t doing anything sobresaliente for its employees.
